Reality
by Sarr Chasm
Summary: Africa is in the past now, but the past always comes back to haunt you. (Cliche much?) S/B. Set after Season 6 ends, during summer. All eps have happened; rumored spoilers for rest of S.6. *Chapter 5 up* Puh-leeze read and review! ...Or just review.
1. Beware the Fish Man

DISCLAIMER: Unfortunately, these intricate beings known as "my" characters are not my own. Hell, even the story isn't my own. In fact, I don't even own a stick of gum. It all belongs to Joss, Mutant Enemy, UPN, etc etc etc. Giving credit where credit is due, folks. Don't sue me... I relinquish any creative thoughts to them.   
  


SPOILERS: Post season 6. Rumored spoilers involved, might be confirmed, might not. Everything has happened (from Normal Again and beyond).   
  


AUTHOR'S NOTE: First two or three chapters a little pedestrian, I'll give it that. Think of it as the exposition, it DOES get better. Please, just hang on and "suffer" through it. Please?   
  


P.S. Am Review hog. BIG   
  
  
  


Chapter One   
  


There was this hollow ache in her heart that night--no, not just that night, but every night for the past few weeks--which seemed to lead to an ever deeper slough of despair. Of course, she couldn't just pin the emptiness on just one thing. Where to begin? Tara, who had so recently become her confidant was gone--gone gone. Not "out for a stroll, I'll call her later" gone, but dead. The harsher shade of gone. 

Willow; she was gone too... gone as in taken leave of her senses. After her black-magicked rage brought on by Tara's sudden death had subsided, all that was left was a broken shell of her best friend. Buffy knew Willow blamed herself for not being able to bring Tara back and also believed that it was what kept Willow under. 

A lump rose in Buffy's throat at the thought of Willow, now so cold and frail. Each day came harder to her as machines pumped artificial life into an otherwise lifeless body. The person who was once a pillar of strength to her now relied on a respirator for her own. Buffy became a helpless victim to the tears which slid down her cheek unabashedly. 

She knew that no amount of patrolling would fill up the gaping void in her heart (she had been counting on a filling sense of duty), but here she was anyway, at her favorite haunt (pardon the pun), the graveyard. 

Her awareness flared up almost too late; she spun on her heel to avoid an attack she felt coming and was nearly unsuccessful, dodging just below a heavy, bladed... Fish? 

Regaining her balance and alertness, Buffy skipped backwards, shifting to the balls of her feet, staring openly at her newest foe. A creature thrice her height and easily five times her weight was spinning dead fish in her direction as one might wield dual scimitars. She squinted again. Yes, the fish (rather large ones to, easily a foot and a half...not in fish-story terms) did appear to be adorned with jagged metal pieces, perfectly equipped for ripping human flesh. 

Since when did the Hellmouth breed weird? Buffy wondered for a moment before the irony sunk in. Groan-worthy, really. All thoughts of her friends, or disturbing lack thereof recently, flew out of her mind as she contemplated the best way to take on a fish-bearing, over-bearing, bear of a demon. And to think Giles had never prepared her for such a thing. 

"Alright, Mr. Fishy, I can improvise," she mumbled to herself. 

Kick, parry, duck, lunge, punch, fly--fly!? And yet, there she was, soaring through the air until the air seemed to solidify into a large, stone mausoleum. 

She groaned and dreaded the thought of getting up on the on-chance she'd be wailed on again. She just didn't feel like her normal "I can kick your ass and maybe mine too!" self that night. 

Then the adrenaline kicked in, and it was a rush! 

Using the stone wall to the crypt as a backboard, she flipped herself to her feet, eyeing the creature doubtfully. It didn't seem that bad, right? 

Or so it seemed until the demon grinned (or simply bore its teeth--hard to distinguish a grin, really), allowing her full view of the most disgusting mouth since the time when Dawn decided to stop brushing (at age 5). Buffy mentally shrugged. Why should she only fight the demons on a dental plan? Kind of judgmental, right? 

Once again, she utilized the wall, reaching one foot up to propel her forward while ripping a knife from her jacket's interior pocket. Buffy angled the point at the Fish Man's grungy teeth, ready to slash through the dentist's nightmare until she realized that the demon was attacking at the same time. 

The thing put both fish into its mangy left hand and now wielded a dagger in its right. It lunged with both, leaving Buffy in such close range as it was inevitable not to hit her with one. 

Greatly preferring the blade to the bladed fish (a double insult), she received a shallow gash on her forearm as she skittered away. She came up quietly behind the monster, readying to plunge her knife into the back of its neck. However, the thing was aware of her presence and viciously swung the fish behind its own back, sinking into her stomach and sending her flying. Again. To hit the crypt. Again. 

"Alright," she repeated, staggering to her slightly wobbly feet. "Let's try this again, only this time I'm gonna--" 

An arm reached out from inside the crypt, cutting off her weak retort and dragging her through the tiny opening just before the Fish Demon came head-on towards her. 

To top off the confusion of the night, she was in a familiar place. Not all that strange, as most of the crypts in Sunnydale were familiar to Buffy, but unnerving. The tattered curtains, the broken chair, and--Oh God--the television set. 

"Spike," Buffy breathed, finally taking note of her "rescuer;" namely, the person she least expected to see. Still, there he stood, taller than she, brooding and dark, emanating a confidence that wormed its way into his walk until it became a swagger. He looked the same as always, dressed in black with contrasting white-blonde mussed hair, but his eyes seemed softer, cooler, calmer. 

His pale hand still grasped her forearm where he had pulled her in, and at that moment, both seemed acutely aware of its presence. 

"Slayer," he nodded, dropping his arm. "Heard you bang a'gainst my door." Hmm.. Bang. Banging. Shagging. "Figured to let you in... Unless you've got some'un out there keeping you company?" A slight smirk of a smile tinged the edges of his lips as he spoke. 

Buffy, on the other hand, was still back on Spike. Spike here. Not gone. Here. Now. Spike. 

Almost as shocking as Riley's candid appearance. 

"Last time I came here, Clem was crypt-sitting for you. He said you'd gone to Africa to--" reality sunk in and Buffy ended her sentence in a soft "oh." 

"Your chip," she noted, her voice dripping with accusation, "You went to become what you were before all this. Before..." Me, was the silent ending. The anger was an obvious mask over hurt, however; even the undead heard it scream to him. Spike's features became soft and surprisingly compassionate, the way they did whenever he saw her hurting. 

His silence, his lack of denial, fueled her pain and she snapped. Anger was always preferable to hurt and tears (as she had so recently become accustomed to). She yelled, berating him, accentuating each word with a harsh blow. But this was no lumbering, fish-wielding demon, untrained in the more useful martial arts. Spike carefully deflected her stunning advances, checking to keep her unhurt. 

Kick, parry, duck, lunge, punch, and no flying. Irrational rage had her now; he became a punching bag--the only tangible thing on which to take her troubles out on. 

But as much as it had happened in the past, Spike was no longer her punching bag. He sidestepped and danced around her and at the point when she came flying towards him in a feral leap, he crouched, catching her foot on her way over. 

The fall to the ground was sobering and even embarrassing. The world which had vanished in the masking haze of fighting came crashing back around her and she was helpless to defend herself against that kind of onslaught. It was funny--the only time she really felt alive was when she was beating Spike up or... 

"Don't mind me if I'm a bit confused right now, pet," Spike drawled, characteristically lighting a cigarette as he spoke, a rare talent, mind you. "Haven't been in the Buffy-loop for a while. Forgot what a whirlwind it was. Not quite sure where that li'l outburst came from, but yes, I did go to get this soddin' chip out. Life works funny, though, don't it, luv? Does things you don't expect, things you wouldn't see coming." He snorted at the disgruntled pile-o-Buffy on the ground, seating himself in his favorite decrepit recliner. 

"Take this for example. Never expected myself to be back here, `less it was to rip out your throat and bathe in your blood. Oh, and believe me, I wanted to. Even when we had each other, I wanted to because I knew it was the only way I'd ever have control." If only he knew what control he had, Buffy though wryly. He continued. 

"And still, here I am, drawn to the very place where I was neutered." He looked over to Buffy, still on the floor, looking very much the same as when she landed. Blank. 

"Luv," he prodded gently, crouching close. "Don't you even want to hear my story?" At the sight of the tears welling up in her eyes again, he gathered her close, Buffy posing no resistance. He sat like that, arms softly stroking her back in reassurance, until she fell asleep. 

"I'll take that as a 'later'." 


	2. Foot-In-Mouth Disease

Chapter Two   
  


Buffy's eyes snapped open. 

"Fish!" 

"Fish?" Spike furrowed his brow, wondering if his Slayer had fared well mentally while he was away. She nodded, hurriedly trying to tug her boots on, comically hopping about on one foot. 

"Fish Man!" He supposed that was all the explanation he was going to get. He nodded to her; a slow, calculating nod with a tinge--no, more like an infestation--of confusion. 

"Pet, you sure you feel alright? No big bumps on your noggin, not been speared by a hallucinogenic demon or nothing?" 

Glare. 

"Yes, I'm sure, but thank you for that tactful reminder of my temporary insanity.. And you'd better hope I didn't just hear you say 'temporary?'!" Buffy paused, mid-shoe, and looked up at Spike. 

"Did I already ask what happened? In Africa, I mean? Or did I tell you about here? Do you know about here? Or was I just incoherent... Kinda like now?" Spike's eyes crinkled as he smiled. 

"Mainly the last one. But dun worry, luv; It was cute." He sucked in his cheeks, just as he did when thinking about something particularly naughty. At this point, Buffy just didn't want to think about it. 

"Good. I don't see myself spilling my heart to you anyway," she moved to go, but was brought up short when his arm snapped out. His eyes turned dangerous, sharp. 

"Don't be so snoot, Slayer. Not like it hasn't happened before, yeh?" 

Glare. Wow, a regular pattern. Comforting, almost, having something just stay the same. Dependable. Comforting...and still utterly gorgeous. Buffy strained to keep her face blank with a touch of impatience, but couldn't help but melt when she actually looked at him. 

It'd been so long. Or felt so long--whichever it was, it hadn't been pleasant for her. Even when he was angry, or maybe especially when, he looked good. His hair had been tousled from her little bout with him the night before and now offset his blue eyes and dark demeanor. 

Not so dark, she mused, really looking at him again. There was something noticeable... Something different... 

Spike cantered his head to the side, quizzical look in place. What on earth was she doing? Why was she just standing there, looking at him? It almost looked approving... Desirous? A hint of a self-satisfied smirk found its way to the surface. He stepped towards her, his presence filling her senses, completely disarming her. She knew she wouldn't be able to resist when he lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered quietly. 

"You haven't properly welcomed me home, yet, pet," he reminded coyly. He felt her shudder, though not in revile. He lowered his mouth a tad lower, playfully nibbling at her earlobe. 

"Doesn't a man get some pity for spending time in the place where the sun is brighter?" 

Buffy stepped back, blushing. Oh, it felt good to have someone there for her again, even if it was just a sex thing. 

"Dawn. School." She moved to leave. 

"Buffy," his voice warned. "It's summer." 

She colored again, but finally seemed to compose herself. She couldn't be sucked in again, not when she was so vulnerable--that's how it happened the first time. She was just using him. 

"William. We're over. We've been over. Respect it." Buffy closed the heavy door behind her, barely missing the object which smashed against it a moment later.   
  


Inside, "William" seethed. How dare she throw it in his face again after he had been there for her. He had been there for her! At first it had hurt that she didn't seem more enthused with his homecoming, but he sensed that her hurt was more profound. 

Now it stung again. 

He nearly flung himself out into the sunlight after her, almost forgetting himself. He heard his voice replay in his mind. 

"It's only a matter of time before you realize that I'm the only one here for you, pet. You've got no one else!"   
  


She thought to go to Willow. No, too depressing, and besides, no verbal advice there. Dawn was too young and Giles was too far away. Tara was the only one who she had the guts to tell about Spike. Blinking hard, Buffy had to remind herself that Tara was out. Maybe Xander... 

At his building, she wrapped her arms around herself, just standing in front of his door. Buffy had rarely been scared in her life, but just seeing her only remaining friend made her nervous. She just didn't think she could handle it if he wasn't the way he used to be... Where was the fairness? 

She opened the door to his apartment and was immediately assaulted by the lack of a woman's touch. His clothing was strewn about, both dirty and clean (though she doubted there was very much of the latter) and dishes were piled up in the sink. She knocked on the bedroom door and stood, waiting for some kind of reply. 

A grunt. Buffy gingerly opened the door to a sight which she did not need to see. 

Drunk, unshaven, filthy Xander. His eyes wandered from the small tv to her face and back again. 

Another grunt. Possibly a greeting or perhaps a brush-off. Either way, it was too much to stand. She supposed he tried to get Anya back--again. The first few times he had tried to patch things up had been admirable, but now were just sad. Pathetic. 

And yet so typical of this life to which Buffy was becoming slowly accustomed to. She let herself out quietly, waiting until the door clicked in the lock before moving to turn around. Before she had the chance, she heard a soft voice. 

"You know... Slayers aren't supposed to have mates. Not for long, anyway. It's common sense, through and through, and you know it. You should be with the people that understand you... Are like you." 

She steeled herself against the tears that she knew would follow in a moment. Funny how often she had cried now. She never used to. Buffy kept her back to him, not wanting to face the only one who had always laid out the truth for her, whether it hurt or not. More often than not, it did. 

"Do you never leave me alone?" she asked, exasperated, and yet eerily calm. Spike leaned over to put a cool hand on her shoulder and was unprepared as Buffy wheeled around, backhanding him across the face, causing him to trip over his sun-shielding blanket. 

"Stay out of my life! Why is that so unclear to you, Spike? Is your skull as thick as your..." Oh God, crossing boundaries. Back up, back up. Beep. Beep. Beep. 

The vampire roughly grabbed her arm and pulled her further down the hallway, closer to the stairwell and not so close to Xander's. 

"Listen here, Blondie," he growled, emphasizing himself with a good shake. "You need me. You need me and I'm here. Why do you have to turn down a free gift?" 

Her cold eyes stunned him. 

"Because nothing's ever free." Buffy flung open the door and stomped down the stairs, very much hoping to make it to the sunlight unhindered.   
  


Spike slid down the wall, covering his face with his hands. What was it about her that made him care so much? He should be free of her and this hell, but here he was again. He hadn't been exaggerating when he had told her that he had no intention of returning. After what had happened in Africa... 

His chest rose in a deep, unnecessary breath. When did it become so important for him to be there for her? He was a vampire, for Christ's sake--the state of the Slayer should never be top on his priority list. 

But it was. And Spike knew it had started with love. 

What was it that Dru had said once? "We can love quite well, if not wisely." That was it. How true she had turned out to be... Always was. Spike felt his lips turn up, just thinking about his Dark Queen. Perhaps... 

No, she was in the past. Buffy was now and Buffy needed him. He would make her see it. 

Spike's deep thoughts clouded him from the subconscious knowledge that someone was close. He could smell the person and since it wasn't her, what was the point? 

The point came in the form of a sharp needle, quickly stabbed into his shoulder. His head lolled lazily to the side. 

What's all this? he peered up at his "attacker" and snorted. 

"Hey, you know that needles can't... hurt..." his sentence drowned itself out, leaving Spike to slump to the ground. 


	3. Snaps Back Like a Rubber Band

Chapter Three   
  


It was another restless night for Buffy as she patrolled, more cautiously than last time. No Fish Men sneaking up on her now, that was for certain. 

Inwardly, she was fuming. Still. 

How dare he judge my friends, telling me that he's the only one here. That's ridiculous! I still have Dawn and... But she knew there was no one else. She knew that he was there for her, as twisted a love story it might make, it was true. A souless vampire was there for the Slayer. Not the Slayer...Buffy. Spike was there for Buffy. Suddenly, remorse flooded her thoughts like an exploded dam. She felt this inexplicable urge to apologize; very bizarre. Her feet found their way to his recently re-inhabited crypt and her hands found the door, pushing lightly. The old wood groaned in protest to being used, but shut fairly quietly behind her. 

The tv wasn't on. Strange, but not alarming. He could still be sleeping. She padded to his large bed, the one in the back, used when he felt more like living like the living. A small smile crept to her face, one of the first genuine ones in a long time, at seeing him sleeping... 

...In his clothing? This in and of itself was unusual, but could possibly be explained by some late night revelry. 

As she walked closer, she realized something that she hadn't noticed before. His eyes were open. Buffy nearly jumped back until she looked again--Yes, he was definitely sleeping. The combination of things made a knot of fear twist itself in her stomach, threatening to overwhelm her. 

"Spike?" she asked timidly and was goaded on by the lack of response. 

"Spike!" Now she yelled. She yelled, hit, and shook the comatose vampire, becoming more apprehensive by the moment. She vainly checked for a pulse and looked for breathing until she remember with whom she was dealing. Her voice became choked with tears, the ever-present tears. Buffy leaned down, lightly brushing her lips against his cold ones, wondering if she was saying goodbye. 

His eyes fluttered. 

Crimminey, it was like Sleeping Beauty. Do things get any lamer? 

"Mmm, luv, next time dun wait so long to..." his words were slurred by sleep or whatever had him under, but either way they were good to hear. Buffy crawled into bed next to him, wrapping her arms around a firmly muscled torso. 

"Hush. You scared me and I think I finally know why. You always scare me, but not in the 'Arrgh, I'm a scary, Big-Bad' sort of way. You're so right that it chills me, always knowing how I'm feeling, even if I don't want to hear it... I never do. I..." she cut herself short, sitting up slightly, casting a questioning look at Spike. He seemed distracted, not the right emotion for someone who had been waiting to hear those words for what seemed like an eternity. Instead of attentive Spike, sweet Spike, understanding Spike, she got... What? Confused Spike? His next words stabbed at her. 

"I... I can't move. I want to do so much to you right now, but I can't. Pet, could you check to see if the rest of my body is still attached to my head?" There was a note of alarm in his smooth voice. This was different for a person who was used to being practically invincible. He didn't get sick, didn't stay hurt. Hurt... Hurt... That was it, his arm hurt. He told her, asking her to take of his shirt for him. Might have been sexy if he hadn't felt like such an invalid. 

"Bloody hell, girl!" he shouted, trying to lurch away as she touched the afflicted area on his right shoulder, but his body was unresponsive. 

"That frickin hurts!" Buffy's eyes darted up to his face, contorted in pain. 

"Spike..." she started hesitantly, "It's... um... Black." 

Bloody hell, indeed.   
  


* * *   
  


Let me clue you in on how things work out in this world, Buffy--they don't. 

Trying very hard to shake away the inner voice of doom and gloom, she focused on the black patch on Spike's shoulder, which seemed to be spreading in a barely perceptible way. 

He had groaned when she gave her mini-diagnosis, but couldn't muster up enough caring to...well...care. This was the way it went. Something happened, it might hurt for a bit, and then it would eventually go away. Scratch that; quickly go away. Being undead did come with a few advantages, at least. Hell, it wasn't only that damned Wolverine from X-Men who healed quickly. Creature of the night here, yeh? All in the job description. 

So why did Buffy looked so bloody worried? Hmm... Interesting point, though. She did looked concerned for his well-being. Meaning...? 

He tried to reassure her. 

"Look, luv, it's nothing; really. Didden mean to make such a big of it. Probably something normal, like... Oh! Pigment discoloration!" He nodded, looking pleased with himself. That sounded plausible. Of course, it didn't quite explain the red puncture dot from where the black seemed to emanate from, but hey! Can't win `em all, hm? 

Her voice was sharp. 

"Spike. You can't move." He struggled to upright himself, but to no avail. He was almost willing to swear that little pixies, in his sleep, had tied invisible weights to every appendage on his body. Well, it's the Hellmouth, after all. 

"It's not nothing. In fact," she continued, "I believe that in the great, wide world of medicine they have a name for this--Something." 

Spike scoffed. 

"I'm just a bit peckish, that's all. Sometimes, I lock up when I haven't eaten in... Wait... What day is it?" Surprised that Spike doesn't wear a watch with one of those glow-in-the-dark dates on it? Don't be. 

Tuesday. That would make it.... one, two, three... Six days since last Wednesday. Isn't that when he last saw Buffy? 

Lessee... Blah blah blah, being hit, blah blah blah, nothing's ever free, blah blah bl--back up. There. That was it. What had happened after she had left? More importantly, what had happened between then and now? 

And Spike was confused.   
  


Buffy sat on the edge of the bed, staring inquisitively at Spike, trying to piece together his puzzle of behavior. Was he counting on his fingers? 

She shook her head and stood up. Shrug. Remembering his comment about being hungry, she took the stairs to the top level and let herself into his fridge. Buffy grudgingly grabbed a bag of blood from the masses and shuddered. (Let's face it, it's gross. Sure she could stand it if it were spewing out of a slaughtered demon's abdomen, but packaged and ready to eat? It was like gogurt, for God's sake! Wonder if it tastes as good frozen...) 

Figuring that Spike would rather eat now than wait for his microwave, which tended to be as haywire as the inner-workings of his mind, she trotted back down to the lower level. 

The metallic, tangy scent of his meal caught his attention, derailing his train of thought. In truth, he hadn't gotten far in Buffy's absence, his mind still stubbornly refusing to recollect the past six days. The smell was heartening, though, and afforded him strength enough to grab the plastic bag from her all-too-willing-to-let-go fingers and ravenously downing the contents and lick his lip in a satisfied manner. 

"Mmm, better," he practically purred, feeling the warmth course through his lifeless body. He opened and closed his right hand, testing the nerves along the arm. Wince. Yep, pretty much in order, if not sore. 

The vampire's hand shot out, grabbing Buffy by the wrist and roughly pulled her onto the bed. His reward was a small gasp, the widening of her eyes. 

"It's been so cold, Slayer," he murmured huskily. "But now you have no excuse to leave. No friends to rush off to, no boyfriend to run home to. Just me and," he leveled a look at her, "And you." 

She leaned in close and for a moment, all seemed well. Her scent appealed to him more than the blood, so sweet, innocent and yet indescribably enigmatic. Spike's body ached for her and he believed that he would get what he had been waiting for... Right up to the point where she punched him on his blackened and already-smarting shoulder. 

Hard. 

"You're a pig, Spike," she spit out angrily, storming for the exit. 

Who knew pigs felt so much pain? 


	4. Round and Round the Loop Goes

Chapter Four   
  


"What is this, some bloody loop?" he fumed after her abrupt departure. As soon as she was near, he'd foolishly remind her that he was the only one there for her... And then she'd run. (Of course, he doesn't think to change anything... Why would he? He hasn't done anything wrong--right?) If he hadn't seen Warren killed and the other two nerds locked up the previous Spring, he'd have sworn the nerds were pulling the Buffy-loop act again. Didn't seem too likely now, however. 

All Spike wanted was to hear her admit her need for him. Not sexually (although always a welcome admittance), but mentally; emotionally. The desire for her to finally realize it was consuming him, driving him insane. But he knew in his shriveled, still heart that she was scared to let him in. 

That's what had driven out Captain America, wasn't it? Her inability to let someone that close? Spike had rarely seen his Slayer scared--wouldn't have thought her the type--but he was sure that was it. 

But if the Big Boy Scout, Mr. Cardboard Cut-out Boyfriend himself couldn't get her to open up, how was he expected to? 

I'm evil, he sneered to himself. To say it now was an open mockery of what he had become. In truth, he hadn't been completely evil since she changed him. 

Love. There it was again. That small, four-lettered word that spelled his destruction and downfall. His reason for keeping on keeping on. It was what had tied him to this hell-hole even after her death should have severed the fetters. 

Did evil things even love? 

No. Whatever vampires called love amongst themselves was not love. Hell, it was as far from love as carrots are from kerosine. It was some twisted, darker half of the emotion, mutilated by the creatures self-imposed inability to love. It was not real. 

But what Spike had now was pure. For once, it wasn't about death and reveling in its dark delights--it was about becoming a better person because the person he loved deserved it. 

Every moment around her, every breath which he did not take around her, made him feel a step closer to the man who lurked behind the monster. In the old days, it was easy to distinguish the two; one was a lovesick sap and the other a powerful death-machine, the Scourge of Europe. Polar opposites. However, when around Buffy he felt the halves creeping closer to each other, taking on the other's qualities. Spike didn't know what would happen when the two finally merged, but he wondered who would be the stronger half. He also found it an unlikely possibility to "grow" a soul, but if anyone could incite such a crazy, it would be the Slayer. 

Gradually, his bloodlust had begun to dim to a dull ache which he would idly remember when by his fridge. It was no longer the all-consuming need as it once was... Now she was his need. For pity's sake, he hadn't attacked the blood-delivering van at the hospital in ages! There was something sickening about the dying people inside...and then the fact that he cared... which made him shudder. No sir, just safe, butcher shop's pig blood for him. Oooh, and on occasion some rare, specialty animal, but it always cost extra. 

So this is what he had become--less a demon than any demon, less a man than any man. Involuntarily, Spike recalled Buffy's cutting remark that first night... 

"Poor Spikey. Can't be a vampire, can't be a human. Where the hell do you fit in?" 

It never bothered him before. To Spike, it was what gave him the upper hand in both worlds. But after that, he knew it was the reason Buffy could never love him in return. 

"She thinks I'm dead inside!" he fumed at nobody. 

"Don't have a heart, don't have a soul, don't have feelings! How the bloody hell would she know? Might require her to take the attention off herself for one. bleeding. minute! Couldn't stand for that, now could we?" His rant illustrated itself with the smashing of what few possessions he owned (not the television of course, we're talking about Passions!) against the stone wall. 

He stopped his pacing suddenly, heading for the cabinet usually kept locked. Not bothering with the key, he smashed his fist through the wood, pulling out an assortment of hard drinks. 

"Don't have a heart. Don't need a liver!" he muttered, taking a straight shot of the fiery liquid. 

His plan: To get completely and utterly smashed.   
  


* * *   
  


Buffy desperately needed to hear a calming and distinctly non-British voice. Her nerves felt frazzled and her mind was a snare of tangled thoughts and feelings, all which she needed to suss out. 

Instead of confronting her inner demons (which always seem to be more difficult than the tangible ones for her), she called the one person she knew would come to her. When she heard the knock on the front door, she rushed to open it and greet the face of her comforter. 

"Angel." 


	5. A Bit of Cold Comfort

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Please review. Even suggest. I thought I knew where I was going, but all of a sudden, it came out on paper and was a muddled mess. I think that's how it is in my mind and didn't have the time to be refined.   
  


P.S. I know the writing style is rudimentary. Too many pronouns, useless adverbs, and my sense of descriptive adjectives has failed me all together. All of my verbs have been flanked with a form of "to be" and it shames me. Oooooh, the shame.   
  


Sigh. "Enjoy."   
  


Chapter Five   
  


He stood on the stoop, stoic as ever, his deeps eyes revealing nothing. Buffy, in contrast, nearly bowled Angel over in a very much unexpected hug. His arms went around her instinctively, a part of his brain telling him that he'd never be able to let go. 

Sparing him the trouble, Buffy pulled away first, letting his hands cup her elbows. She kept quiet, sensing his need to speak. 

"I'm sorry I haven't seen you sooner, Buffy. I know things have been hard." And they had been, assuredly, but life had been no picnic for himself. For now, they were just two people who needed to know it was going to be alright. 

His words warmed her and she gave the barest hint of a smile. It didn't quite reach her eyes, though; it made them look wistful and far off, no doubt thinking of times past when things felt easier. No, it hadn't seemed easy then, but now Buffy realized that she had her friends with her to help her through whatever came up. No more. Now she was alone. 

Mentally shaking herself back to reality, she invited Angel in. 

"You're here now... And it means a lot to me." He paused, looking at her and considering. Finally, he nodded and followed her in, closing the door behind himself.   
  


The sigh of Angel holding her--touching her--left an acrid taste in his mouth. Was this the other half of the loop? First, he would offer her help, second, she would refuse him, and third, she'd seek it somewhere else? 

"And Peaches, no less," Spike grumbled before taking a long drag from his cigarette, inducing a much-needed nicotine rush. He hadn't done this in a while, not since he'd been back, anyway; just stand outside her house, not willing to admit to himself his fear of walking in. Doors were not meant for things like him... Too civil. 

"Always gotta go for the goodie-goodies, yeh Slayer?" his soliloquy continued, "You know you've never had it as good as me.... Just wonder how long it'll take you to know." With that, he sat himself under the largest tree on the lawn, his back propped against the rough bark. He had a full pack of cigarettes, a brimming flask of liquid courage, and a boat-load of patience. He wasn't leaving until Mr. Soul-Happy left too.   
  


* * *   
  


The words poured from her mouth before her brain could even assess what she was saying. The only way Buffy could be sure it wasn't pointless babble came from Angel's intermittent poignant questions and understanding nods. These only spurred her on further, admitting her feelings of loss and hopelessness as the Scoobies slowly self-destructed, coupled with her regression into not feeling alive anymore. The only person who could make her forget was the one person she wanted to. 

Everything which she felt she needed to keep pent up to spare the feelings of others came out--even the story of the hallucinogenic demon which had caused her to nearly kill her friends. Everything, that is, but her sordid "relationship" with Spike. She knew it would be too big a pill to swallow for Angel and she wanted his comfort, not his judgment. 

Yes, she avoided the topic of the sex, but blatantly denied to herself what resembled pleasure when she had discovered his homecoming. Some things were better left unthought. 

As quickly as it had started, it stopped. There was no more to tell. Buffy felt exhausted, drained, even, but appreciative that she could talk to Angel, who knew her so well. 

There was a pause, a moment of peaceful silence. Buffy closed her eyes for a moment, collecting her thoughts which seemed more disorganized now than before the Spill-Your-Guts session. 

She never saw the kiss coming until she found herself kissing him back. Her emotional state had put her over the top and Buffy felt as if she were in a haze, a distant spectator of her own actions. Her small hands skimmed over his waist as his supported her back, one resting on her shoulder, the other on the small of her back, keeping her close. He was her protector, her comforter--he was there for her. 

Something was off... Missing. It felt natural, but not quite right. Her subconscious searched for the answer as her tongue searched for... 

And then it hit her and she pulled away slowly, trying to keep from adding insult to injury. Her hands rubbed his arms in an affectionate gesture as Angel quizzically tilted his head. 

"This isn't right--for either one of us," Buffy attempted to explain. "I've had enough comfort sex to last me a few lifetimes--not that there would be any, I know. But still..." 

They both stood from the couch and she smiled. 

"Thanks for coming when I needed you." He nodded before bending down, kissing her on the forehead and moved to leave. Once he was gone, Buffy slid her feet into her sandals and made for the door. She knew who she wanted to see.   
  


* * *   
  


Buffy didn't have far to look. She had been about to walk down her driveway, heading for the cemetery, before her Spikey-senses (Spider sense... Spidey-sense.... Aw c'mon, throw me a bone!) began to tingle, drawing her attention to the large tree in her lawn. She crept closer, stealthily as possible, subconsciously enjoying the angelic look on his face as he slept, hunkered down into his leather duster. Granted, he had fallen asleep with a cigarette (long burned out) in his mouth, but it added to the general charm. 

Still standing a foot away, she nudged his boot with her toe. 

"Expected sunrise for the dust inclined: 5:32 A.M," she heard herself say, imitating the local weather-woman. A glacier-blue eye opened, followed by its pair after gauging Buffy's expression. She extended a hand and, after Spike stood, silently led him into the house.   
  


He didn't understand how it happened. One minute, he had been fuming about the Poof-to-end-all-poofs and situated himself under the tree, vowing to keep a vigil until his grandsire left. Then, he had slipped a hand into the left, inside pocket of his coat and unstoppered his flask, taking a draught that would knock the pants off of anyone human... (Explaining the fuzz, actually) The next thing he knew, he was being awoken by the voice which haunted his dreams and plagued his thoughts for more than just waking moments. 

And now, it appeared he was walking into her house and...Bloody hell, was Angel still about? Maybe she had told him about their little tryst and was now leading him in to be slaughtered, an ever appealing thought. He sighed resignedly as he crossed the threshold, mentally preparing himself for a wailing. 

But Angel wasn't there. The nose knows, you know? 

This added to Spike's sleepified confusion as she pulled him up the stairs, turning into her room. He felt like stopping, pulling his hand from hers, and basically throw a fit. About Angel, about her, about them. Anything. 

Even more than his desire to throw out some verbal abuse was the burning ache to hear her say-- 

"I love you, Spike," Yeah. That was it. Where was the difficulty in saying... Oh. Wait, sinking in. Processing... Processing... She wasn't waiting for him to sort through her words, however, and had continued on. 

"I don't know why or how it happened, I just know that it's here and I feel it. I'm sick of running, Spike. I'm tired of it all. All I want now is you..." She trailed off, locking her eyes with his. Buffy waited for a few minutes until it became painstakingly apparent that Spike had run out of retorts. The frankness with which she had lain things out for him had finally stunned him into silence. Huh. Imagine that. More effective (cost effective, too) than a muzzle and phoo, the leather ones were expensive, not to mention Hanibal-looking... 

The silence stood like a barrier between them, neither one willing to scale the wall for the other side. Eventually, Buffy opened her mouth to say something--anything--and stopped short as Spikes arms suddenly crushed her in a pouncing embrace. His lips were no less savage, demanding everything at once, eloquently stating what the silence had sailed to do. 

She pushed herself against his lean frame, both small hands cupping his face, melding his mouth to hers. He began to wander, burning a trail from her mouth to her chin, tracing the determined line of her jaw, suckling the soft flesh of the neck. Her moan was timeless, made by generations of women before her and in the passion of the moment lived on. She inhaled his scent; leather, smoke, alcohol, all blended into the original musk of Spike. That is what was missing from Angel's embrace: it was not Spike. 

His line of kisses had led him to the neckline of her tank-top, and just as he began to lift the clingy fabric over her head, she whispered the words which meant more to him than her declaration of love. 

"I need you. Oh God, I always need you. Please, don't leave me again." Her words, her pleading, amorous tone, caused something inside him to snap. With a growl, he swept her off her feet and all but sprinted to the bed. 

For once, it wasn't about the emotions, those crazy, whirlwind emotions that had Buffy pulling him close and then shutting him out. It was about need--pure, unadulterated, need. 

It was different this time. Buffy's mind was not contaminated with guilt around the edges that slow seeped in after it was over. She felt free, alive, and she knew that it wouldn't crash around her once he was gone. There was strength in admitting a weakness; now was the time to indulge it. 

In her throes of ecstasy, she said it again, over and over, like a soothing mantra. 

"I love you, Spike. I love, need, want you. Please... Just..." Her voice trailed off, her eyes refocusing on her lovers human visage. A hot flash of lightning coursed through her body, but it wasn't just the sex. Something had changed. 

Noting the change in her gaze, he tilted his head to the side in a silent question. Was this wrong? He thought it had felt pretty damn... Suddenly, he knew what she was feeling. The battle began in his mind--it had been so long since he had felt the warring halves, he wasn't sure what it was at first. They clashed inside him, the other trying to force its opponent out and be left the victor. 

This time it was different, though. There was no winner of the two because, abruptly, there ceased being two. There was only one. 

Her question summarized the jolting realization. 

"Where have you gone, Spike? William?" 


End file.
